


Faster, Higher, Stronger

by ignipes



Category: I Want To Go Home! - Korman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-10
Updated: 2008-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whether or not that Phelps kid is a drugged-up fish, our boys don't have a chance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faster, Higher, Stronger

"He's unreal."

"He's not even human."

"He's part fish."

"He's totally doping."

There's a chorus of angry protests around the bar. Mike smiles as he collects the empty glasses. Every TV in the place is tuned to the Olympics coverage, and everybody is waiting for yet another race starring Michael Phelps. Even, Mike thinks with amusement, all the regulars who normally only get this worked up over hockey.

Cheryl, the waitress, leans her hip against the bar and says what everybody is thinking. "Whether or not that Phelps kid is a drugged-up fish, our boys don't have a chance." This time there are murmurs of agreement all around. The cameras aren't even panning over the Canadian swimmers anymore. Cheryl sighs. "I wish they'd show us a better variety of abs."

Mike laughs. "I know one of them, you know."

She looks at him curiously. "One of who?"

"One of our swimmers." He nods at the TV above the end of the bar. "Miller. Rudy. We've been friends for a while."

"Yeah?" Cheryl looks blank. "Which one is he?"

"He's the one who never smiles," a girl puts in. Mike recognizes her as the girlfriend of one of the regulars. She usually sits at a table looking bored out of her mind, but lately she's become a self-proclaimed Olympic Expert and she's got a thing or two to say about every event. She leans on the bar and says knowledgeably, "Everybody thinks he would be winning if Michael Phelps didn't exist. But obviously he's too intimidated to swim at his best now."

"I kind of doubt that," Mike says. He can think of about a thousand different ways to describe Rudy Miller, but _intimidated_ has never been one of them.

But the girl shakes her head. "It's true. You can tell." She sighs mournfully. "It's too bad, really. It would be nice to see the Canadian team win something."

"They still might," Cheryl says, bristling a bit with uncharacteristic patriotism. "The race isn't over yet."

Mike fills glasses and pitchers up and down the bar, only half-listening to the television. The announcers with their microphones are going on and on about Michael Phelps' Olympic history and Michael Phelps' gold medals and Michael Phelps' world records, and they pretty much forget to even mention the other nations - or the other swimmers on the American relay team, for that matter - until the swimmers are lining up at the blocks, adjusting their suits and shaking out their arms and legs.

When the race is about to start, the Olympic Expert tries to shush everyone else in the bar. She doesn't have much success. But everybody's paying attention when the shot goes off and the race starts. The announcers are all about the grudge match between the American and French teams, calling out the order of the swimmers with increasingly hysterical enthusiasm with every passing second, but it doesn't get interesting until the last leg of the relay.

"Phelps is still in the lead," the announcer is saying, "but he's got some pressure from the - whoa there, what's this? What's happening in lane two? That's Miller for Canada moving up to third place - no, second, would you look at that! Now he's chasing down Michael Phelps, I can't believe what I'm seeing here, keep your eyes on lane six and lane two, they're head to head, just two lengths out and-"

A stunned hush falls over the bar as the swimmers reach for the wall in a mess of flailing limbs and splashing water.

"_I don't believe it!_" the announcer explodes. "_Rudy Miller of Canada has beaten Michael Phelps by one one-hundredth of a second! Canada wins the gold and sets a new world record!_"

The bar erupts into a cacophony of cheers and table-pounding and back-slapping. The Olympic Expert is jumping up and down and clapping, and Cheryl throws her arms around Mike and gives him a kiss. Mike's dimly aware of the announcer on the television saying things like _completely unexpected_ and _wholly unprecedented_, but he's smiling so hard his face hurts and he doesn't pay attention until some time later when the Olympic Expert says, "Hey, hey, quiet, they're interviewing them!"

Nobody quiets down, but Mike moves closer to the TV to hear. A reporter has the four guys from the Canadian relay team with her. Mike knows them all by name (he's seen two of them do a drunken karaoke performance he really wishes he could forget), and he's not surprised that three of the four of them are beaming like it's the greatest day of their lives.

He's also not surprised that Rudy isn't smiling at all. Rudy looks bored. Really, really bored.

The reporter asks each of them the usual questions about winning and living the dream and all that, and when she gets to Rudy she says, "Rudy Miller, Canada's star of the day. Tell me, coming into this race, you must've known you didn't have much chance of beating Michael Phelps. How did you do it?"

Rudy looks at her impassively. "I was faster than him," he says.

The reporter blinks. And waits. The other three guys on the team glance at each other and roll their eyes.

When no further answer is forthcoming, the reporter smiles manically and says, "Right! You certainly were! And now that you've finished your final race of these games - and what a finish it was! - what are you going to do next? Is it time to start thinking about 2012?"

"No," Rudy says. "This was my last race. I don't swim anymore."

And he turns and walks away, leaving the reporter spluttering and his three teammates smiling awkwardly.

"Jeez," the Olympic Expert says, rolling her eyes. "You'd think somebody killed his puppy, not that he just won the freakin' gold medal. Your friend doesn't have a very winning attitude."

Mike shakes his head and smiles. "You have no idea," he says. He goes back to work filling glasses for the celebratory round.

-

A few hours later the bar is closed and Mike is walking home along quiet streets. His phone rings, and the screen tells him the caller is unknown. He answers anyway.

"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" Rudy says before Mike can even say 'hello.'

Mike grins at the empty street. "Congratulations on the gold medal and world record and bringing Olympic glory to our beloved homeland," he says loyally. "I knew you could do it."

"Thank you very much," Rudy says, his tone impeccably formal.

Mike adds, "And also for single-handedly crushing the hopes and dreams of millions of swimming-obsessed American fans. You've just become America's most wanted and they're going to murder you in your sleep. It was nice knowing you."

"I'm not worried," Rudy says airily.

"You should be," Mike says. "You probably made Michael Phelps cry. His mom will come after you."

"I can take her. I've got the doubles badminton team from Thailand on my side," Rudy says. "They might be little, but they're fierce."

"Oh, good," Mike says with a laugh. "I'll sleep a lot better tonight knowing they're keeping you safe."

"Safe, but not hidden," Rudy says. "For that I've obtained a fake passport from a Romanian wrestler named Vlad." He pauses. "We had to communicate using only grunts and sign language, but I think we understood each other."

Mike stops walking at a corner to wait for the light to change. "So you're not really sure you asked for a fake passport."

"Not at all," Rudy says. "But if I get back to the Olympic Village and find a Romanian transvestite midget prostitute in my room, I'll acknowledge there was a failure in communication and adjust my plans accordingly."

Mike laughs again. "Do I even want to know what those plans are?"

"Of course you do," Rudy says. "How else will you know which Tibetan monastery to go to when it's time to find me?"

"I'll just ask the monks to point me toward the crazy foreigner with the bad attitude," Mike says. He imagines a line of yellow-robed monks alongside a dusty Tibetan road, all pointing in the same directed with the same wide-eyed, dumbstruck expression on their faces. "I don't think it'll be that difficult."

"I knew I could count on you," Rudy says. "I've already sent my family into hiding. Jeff is working at a _taqueria_ in Mazatlan. His disguise is lovely, but he gets angry if you call him Rosalita."

The light changes and Mike steps down from the sidewalk. "You didn't tell them, did you."

"Unlike some other people we'll refrain from mentioning, they were in the audience for every lap," Rudy says. "I don't think they need me to tell them."

"Not that," Mike says quickly, stamping down the familiar pang of guilt. It doesn't seem like such a sensible decision now, choosing to pay for rent and tuition and food over plane tickets to China, but it's too late to do anything about it. "I mean, that you were going to quit after this race. And announce it like that."

"Ah."

There's a long, tense silence. Mike pauses in front of an apartment building. He can hear a television on inside, the sounds drifting through an open window. He half-expects to hear the click of Rudy hanging up, but when that doesn't come he sits down on a low brick beside the sidewalk and rests his elbows on his knees.

"No," Rudy says finally. "I didn't tell them."

Mike smiles and shakes his head. "Well, I don't think they have swimming pools in Tibetan monasteries, so you should be all set."

Another long silence. Mike knows it wouldn't make much difference if Rudy was right next to him, because Rudy is just as impossible to read in person as he is over the phone, but he wishes he could see him anyway. But he doesn't say anything, not this time. Over the past several months, Mike's been woken up in the middle of the night more times than he can count by phone calls in which Rudy talks to him about politics or music or the economy or the shaving habits of his teammates or the failures public transportation or _anything_ \- anything and everything that has nothing to do with swimming or training or the Olympics - and he's learned that sometimes it's better not to push.

When Rudy does speak again, what he says is: "You should probably read up on yak herding before you come to meet me. You'll need some way to support our fugitive lifestyle."

"Me?" Mike asks, laughing. "Why do I have to be the breadwinner? Er, yakherder, whatever."

"I don't herd yaks," Rudy says evenly. "That means you have to."

"I'm not the one in fear for my life," Mike points out. "I haven't disgraced anybody's national hero lately."

Rudy sighs audibly. "You're young and naïve, but you'll learn the truth. Nobody is safe."

"Oh, hey, is that why these men in dark suits are following me?"

"You should try to lose them in the alleys and side streets," Rudy says. "But if you can't, you know what you have to do."

"I really don't. What do I have to do?"

"The cyanide pill in your fake tooth. You've trained for this day, Webster. Don't let me down."

"You can count on me." Mike tries to sound serious, but he knows he doesn't manage it. "What are you�"" He breaks off, listening.

There are voices on the other end of the line, and Rudy says something away from the phone. It sounds like he's arguing with somebody, but Mike can't make out what he's saying. After a little bit, Rudy comes back and says, "I have to go now. I'm told somebody wants to interview me."

"Sure," Mike says. "You should go. Try not to insult any commentators or cause any irreparable international incidents."

"It's almost like you don't trust me," Rudy says. "What have I done to deserve that?"

"I know you," Mike says. "Talk to you later, then."

Before he can hang up, Rudy says, "Hey, Mike."

"Yeah?"

"After this I think I'm going to..."

He doesn't go on, so Mike asks cautiously, "What are you going to do?"

Rudy clears his throat and says, "I think I'm going to tell them that now that I'm retired from swimming I want to challenge that Jamaican runner to a race."

Mike lets out a bark of laughter. "You should do that. Definitely."

"Is that a dare?"

Mike doesn't have to see Rudy to know he's got one eyebrow raised expectantly. "It's a dare," Mike says. "If your challenge isn't all over the news when I wake up in the morning, I'll be very disappointed."

Rudy says, "And we all know we can't have that." There's more commotion on the other end and Rudy saying to somebody else, "Are you worried they're going to start interviewing me without me there?" Then, to Mike again, "I really do have to go now."

"Have fun," Mike says.

Rudy replies, "You have a very strange idea of what constitutes fun."

He hangs up without saying goodbye, and Mike snaps his phone shut and slips it into his pocket. He walks the rest of the way home smiling and humming "O Canada" under his breath.


End file.
